


I don't have a hawk in my heart

by KelpietheThundergod



Category: Trigun
Genre: Angst, Gen, Introspection, M/M, Trigun and Rush songs, fic for Celesma, some arguing, some banter, various povs, yes that's a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There'll be no dagger to your back if you go and finally take out the root of it all. But giving yourself up will do no good, so erase that plan straight outta your stubborn spikey head, you got that? Resist, Vash. That's all I'm askin'.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I don't have a hawk in my heart

**I don't have a hawk in my heart**

 

Disclaimer: I don't own Trigun. Title is a line from “Thirsty” by The National. Song lyrics used (I rearranged them a little) are from “Resist” by Rush. Obviously, I _couldn't_ resist ;-)  


A/N: Skipping between two POVs (again). It starts with Wolfwood, then Vash, then Wolfwood again, and so on.

A/N: I dedicate this one to Celesma :-) Because we both adore Trigun and Rush and combinations of the two; because she is an awesome beta; and, mostly, because I consider her a wonderful person and a very good friend :-)

 

  
  
oOo  


 

_I can learn to resist_

_Anything but temptation_

 

Hiding your true intentions comes easily enough by now – slipping on a mask of anger, indifference, arrogance; that's not hard to pull off if your face isn't truly yours, after all.

 

Also, it's easy to resist being yourself when you hate yourself.

 

Still, there is this occasional earnestness that slips through. You'd like to say it's the crazy Tongari's fault, driving you out of your skin and all, but damn, there's enough self-deception going on in your life already. And hell if he doesn't drive you nuts, but that's not it, that's not the problem at all.

 

It's the way Vash tempts you to give him a piece of your mind, to make him see the struggle in yourself, the struggle you should – you _are –_ doing your best to hide from him.  


It's this dangerous wish to make your reasons understandable to him.

 

It's so tempting, this foolish notion that Vash might change his mind because of something you say. So you can go down thinking the ones you fight for will be saved.

 

_I can learn to coexist_

_With anything but pain_

 

Sometimes, you won't say anything for days.  


The priest seems to understand, kind of. It's clear he doesn't approve of it, this way of coping with the weight upon your shoulders. Somehow, though, he always seems to know when you need the quiet.

 

He also seems to know when you need to be teased out of it, when it's time for him to prod at you until this strange, rough way he has of taking care of you makes the pain and the numbness fade again.

 

It's shameful, probably, that you only ever realize much later how him annoying the hell out of you helps you out of this state, time and time again.  


Apparently, and contrary to what you've believed for a long, long time, you've never really coped with it while you were alone.

 

 

_I can learn to compromise_

_Anything but my desires_

 

“Do you really have to do that all the time?” He crinkles his nose dramatically. “It's _unhealthy_.”  


Vash frowns at you in disapproval while managing to almost arrogantly stride beside you through the sand.  


Unimpressed, you take a deep drag and hiss the smoke out through your teeth.

 

“Your face is unhealthy.”

 

You allow yourself a private smirk while Vash snorts indignantly, his frown deepening.  


“Seriously, you should tone it down a notch. People might get the idea you're doing it on purpose.”  


“Doing what e'zactly, Tongari?” you ask, breathing out another cloud of smoke.  


“Poisoning yourself.” Somehow, Vash manages to hold his head even higher and give a fussy little sniff.  


“Heh,” you chuckle. “And what people, Tongari?”

 

Vash flails his arms, as if to demonstrate. You lean to the side in order to avoid his octopus limbs, clamping the cigarette between your teeth in protection.

 

“You know – people!!”

 

“There's not a soul out here for iles, Tongari.”

 

Pouting for a moment.

 

“There's me,” Vash finally states with confident finality.

 

You can't help but snort, shaking your head.

 

“What?!” Vash sounds almost hurt.

 

“You make it sound like you went and married us, bonehead.”

 

Somehow, you manage to remain straight-faced during all this, while Vash's mouth opens and closes several times before he finally looks away, grumbling.

 

“Shut up. I'd make an _awesome_ husband.”

 

“Sure, Tongari, sure.”

 

Vash grumbles some more, but otherwise, it's silent for now.

 

You act completely unfazed and at ease, although internally, you hope that Vash will let it drop and not bring it up again. You can't really say why because, after all, not telling him that smoking keeps your hypersensitive nerves in check isn't much of a lie compared to other things you bend the truth about. Still, having to lie about not being in control of something makes you nervous, almost insecure, for he has this habit of seeing straight through the very lies and half-truths you thought he'd buy most easily.

 

If he thinks there's more behind this, if you (even unintentionally) make him believe you have to be _saved_ , that you feel more for him than you let on… then everything will be over.

 

You can't let that happen.

 

You _won't_ let that happen.

 

So what you do is this: Before Vash can think about it some more, before he can make a move to dig deeper, exploit whatever hole he believes he's found in your masquerade, you'll throw some more dirt on it, make the crack in your armor disappear again underneath it.

 

You'll take the lie and place another lie on top of it.

 

Dismissively, you throw the spent cigarette over your shoulder and calmly light the next. Leisurely, as if you have all the time in the world. As if all you care about and all that you wish for, is _more_ smoke, _more_ endless walking across unforgiving sand; as if there's no desire in you to tell Vash what's truly on your mind, to touch him as if his skin was salvation. As if there is no desire in you to change, none at all.

 

You take a deep drag and shrug without concern, staring off into the distance.

 

“Why should I compromise what I want? I'm a free man, Tongari.”

 

 

_I can learn to get along_

_With all the things I can't explain_

 

It's important, you've realized at some point, to accept and value the things you know without there being a reason behind it why you know them. To accept that there are things that won't let themselves be put into words, into definitions.

 

What makes it difficult, of course, is that this also means you might never be able to share these things with anybody else.

 

You wish – at times almost desperately – that others might feel what you feel in the face of violence, of injustice. Of killing.

 

There's a saying that, with each life you take, your soul becomes burdened for eternity. Yet you have seen men kill without blinking, without even hesitating once, over and over and over.

 

(You have seen your brother watching the burning ships – full of people, so many people – fall and burst like dying stars with glee and satisfaction on his face. How can they, how can _he,_ not feel in his soul what he's done, how can he even breathe under the crushing weight of it?)

 

The sadness in yourself feels endless sometimes; the guilt, too – many people, your brother included, have asked you to kill, to punish. Many times you have failed to save innocents.

 

There are things in your heart that you know and that you believe fiercely in – that your brother is not yet lost to you, that Rem was right, that people are good and worth saving. That you can't and won't ever give up on living your life the way you do, even if that means having to hide and smile and endure forever.

 

From time to time, you'll desperately wish to be able to explain everything, but there's just no way, and so, you will continue to refrain from it.

 

As long as you'll value what you know, as long as you can help people, nobody ever has to understand.

 

_You can fight_

_Fight without ever winning_

 

It's the farce of it, the pretense, that's the really sickening part of it for you.

 

Here you are, a kid, who's playing an assassin, who in turn is playing the good guy protecting his friend, who is playing the devil. Who wants to be a good man.

 

You're protecting Vash and fighting his foes; except when you're actually leading Vash towards the danger and when you have to play-fight those sick Gung-Ho Guns because you're not _allowed_ to kill them, because, hey, big surprise, you actually _belong_ to them.

 

You're used to having to kill, even – no, let's be honest here for once – _especially_ to kill on demand, kill under order. But those times, at least, you have had the dubious comfort of knowing the blame will be put on your soul alone, that your victim will be able to look you in the eye and know who to curse.

 

Here, now, the only real fight you've got going is your own internal battle; the struggle of keeping yourself in line. And it burns like acid in your stomach, this fight, for how can you fight and prevail over yourself?

 

_But never ever win  
Win without a fight_

 

“You do know you're going to have to do it, right?”

 

It comes out of nowhere and surprises you. The two of you have been walking silently for hours. The suns have begun to settle; you're going to have to stop in some time, lest you freeze to death once night sets in. Or Wolfwood would, probably. Despite the serious muscle he must have, swishing the Cross Punisher around the way he does, the priest looks almost brittle sometimes, starved and kind of drawn out. It's completely at odds with his crazy fighting though, so you never give it much thought. Many things appear to be possible on Gunsmoke.

 

Now, you squint your eyes behind your glasses to look to your right at the priest, whose silhouette is illuminated by the sunset of the twin suns behind him.

 

“Do what? What are you talking about?”

 

Wolfwood doesn't look at you, impatiently hissing smoke out through his teeth.

 

“Punching Knives in the face, that's what I'm talking about,” he drawls darkly.

 

You stay silent for a moment, thrown by the unexpected topic and the priest's strange tone. It's not like the two of you haven't had conversations along these lines before, but never _this_ out of nowhere.

 

“Uh... yeah?” You smile, chuckling kind of nervously. “If that helps him come to his senses, I might, yeah. Uhm, why are you – ” But the priest won't let you finish, completely overriding your attempt to lighten the mood.

 

He turns around to you, and yeah, just _great_ , he has that look in his eyes that's like a laser, even though Wolfwood would have no idea what a laser is. It's piercing, nonetheless, and makes you feel laid bare, stripped of all defenses and deflections.

 

In all your time here, no one has ever managed that.

 

(You have no idea why that is, and so far you've avoided thinking about that too.)

 

“I'm talking about _fighting_ here, Vash. About saving people. About winning.”

 

He holds your gaze for another moment, a look like unrelenting steel in his eyes, before he turns away again and then moves to outpace you and walk ahead alone. The Punisher scrapes across his back with each step in the cooling sand.

 

The two of you don't talk again until Wolfwood finally stops walking, the dark starting to crawl in now. He makes no move to set up the camp or even turn around though, just puts the Punisher down and leans it against his front.

 

You stop too, still a few steps behind him.

 

You're still wondering about what to say when Wolfwood begins to light a cigarette. He takes a deep drag and mutters:

 

“You know, I can't exactly _make_ you do anything. No one can. I'm just sayin', there'll be no winning without a fight. You gotta face that.”

 

Taken aback, you ponder his words for a moment.

 

“Hm. There are many ways of fighting, I guess,” you say softly. You know what his point is, but you also know where you stand in regards to it.

 

The priest makes an annoyed, unbelieving sound at that, but doesn't say anything else. His shoulders are still tense, but he appears more weary now than angry.

 

Which is strange, kind of, considering that there's been no fighting today at all, just these endless hours tracking through dusty towns and sand, which, okay, _had_ been quite tiring.

 

Still. There'd been worse, _much_ worse days. After which they'd still been walking.

 

And fighting.

 

But maybe, today, there has been a totally different kind of fight going on: one which you have been completely oblivious to so far.

 

Watching the priest, who continues to smoke but makes no move to sit down, you stride forward and, tentatively, put a hand on his left shoulder. Wolfwood tenses further, almost imperceptibly, then seems to force himself to relax.

 

“I'm sorry. I do listen to you, you know. And I will mind your words,” you say quietly.

 

Wolfwood turns at that, and the angry (yet almost desperate) look in his dark eyes takes you by surprise.

 

“I'm not saying listen to me. I'm sayin' you never make excuses, Tongari. Not so far. You don't give in. So don't take the easy way out, in the end.”

 

He turns from you and starts to put the Punisher down on the ground. You're still standing where he left you, processing his last words – too sharp again, too close for comfort – when he adds:

 

“There'll be no dagger to your back if you go and finally take out the root of it all. But giving yourself up will do no good, so erase that plan straight outta your stubborn spikey head, you got that? Resist, Vash. That's all I'm askin'.”

 

You have no reply to that and the priest doesn't seem to expect one.

 

_I can learn to close my eyes_   
_To anything but injustice_   
_I can learn to get along_   
_With all the things I don't know_

 

Later, when Wolfwood's asleep (or not; with him, you're never sure anymore), you're still mulling his words over in your mind, staring unseeing at the stars while fighting for peace and clarity in your head.

 

You think you got what it is he was trying to tell you without actually saying it – at least parts of it. And yet, there's something nagging at the back of your mind, his words echoing strangely in your head, like there's not just a message behind them but also a double meaning.

 

There was a peculiar tone to them. As if Wolfwood had said them many times before.

 

But to whom?

 

(“Don't give in. Don't makes excuses. Resist. Resist.”)

 

The stars come and fade again and you're no closer to the answer. And while you suspect that Wolfwood’s still awake, you prevent yourself from asking him.

 

You haven't forgotten the priest's words and so, you take your cue from them.  


oOo  
  
 _You can surrender_

_Without a prayer_

 

 

(“You have to survive! You have to return to them!” – “...I'm afraid not... Tongari...”)  
  
 _But never really pray_  
 _Pray without surrender_  
  
(“Oh God... God... Grant me one wish.”)

 

  
oOo

 

 

_I can learn to resist_   
_Anything but temptation_   
_I can learn to co-exist_   
_With anything but pain_   


Later, much later, when you've killed Legato; when you have _fought_ , are still fighting, fighting for control over your body even hours afterward, you finally realize what a coward you've been. There seems to be much less strength, much less understanding in your heart than you believed there to be.

 

Apparently, you have been as blind to other people's viewpoints, to their feelings, as your brother has come to be.

 

It was not about _resisting_ being turned around by Wolfwood's words that one night, long past and yet so vivid in your mind. It was about not considering his angle at all.

(“The day will come when you'll have to choose.”)

For you were afraid of the pain it would bring if it all turned out to be true.

 

(“I'm talking about _fighting_ here, Vash...”)

And now you finally begin to have an idea of what that means.

 

(“I do listen to you, you know. And I will mind your words.”)

It doesn't mean to resist the pain and the crushing weight of it.

It doesn't mean to be blind or cowardly and take the easy way out, either.

 

Does it mean to kill? Kill to save?

Does it mean to have strength in one's heart?

 

(And will _you_ , ever, have that kind of strength? The strength to understand and make _them_ understand in return? So far, you have failed at both. You have given in to closing your eyes, choosing not to see, and that very thing has turned out to be your greatest mistake.)

 

There's only way to go; has ever been, right? And you have resisted so far.

 

 

oOo


End file.
